Sassenachs and Strangers Alike
by ABigBlueBox
Summary: When Claire Randall falls through the stones, another falls with her. Both women from vastly different times - Claire shortly after the end of WWII, and Lise more than a century later - yet their stories follow an oddly similar pattern. Lives interlinked by Craigh na Dun, Lise and Claire find they are as much strangers to themselves as they are to the highlanders. Rated T for lang.
1. Chapter 1

The tartan blanket sprawled on the damp ground behind Claire, angel wings spread out on the ground. She lay there for a few moments, dazed and disorientated, desperately trying to make her head stop spinning. Her back ached from the impact, the collision still ringing through her spine. A voice sounded from the far side of the stone, a moan bubbling up through the grass and punctuated with a final muttered:

"Fuck," The owner of the voice rolled out from behind the stone, and came into view. The two women propped themselves up on to their elbows and stared at each other, aghast. Both rapidly tried to think where the other could have come from, but it was the other women that moved first. She hauled Claire upright, grasping her by the elbow. "Who're you?" She asked, her accent driving the question to a harshness Claire wasn't expecting. The woman was dressed bizarrely – not just the style, but also too warmly. It was the middle of summer, and a warm summer at that, and the woman in front of her stood wearing heavy duty boots, thick leggings and several thick layers appeared to be dressed for mid-winter. Claire stumbled to find a response to the bizarre apparition in front of her.

"Who are _you_?" Claire settled for, searching her surroundings for some discernible reason for why she was on the ground. "And what happened?"  
The woman stared back at Claire, before kicking the stone with her black polished boots, leaving a scuff mark on them, and leaning against the rock itself.

"People call me 'Lise," The woman relinquished, "And last I remember, I was wading through a foot of snow, so any bets to what the hell has happened?"

The women moved alongside each other through the woodland which had blossomed since both of them had last seen it. Felled branched now floated high and lofty, leaves dripping from them like jewels. Claire's car no longer sat where she had parked it, and Lise's phone didn't get signal anymore. Claire had tried not to gawk at the small black rectangle, but out the corner of her eye she glanced at it, and tried to swallowed her curiosity.

"Have ye never seen a phone?" muttered Lise when she pulled it out her pocket for the third time. Claire's protest was cut off with a sharp crack of gunfire through the air. Both women ducked, Lise dropping behind a log, and peering between the branches that spewed from it, Claire merely crouched. Lise gestured for Claire to hide with her. Claire merely stared at the soldiers that ran along the top of the mini-valley she stood in. Claire stepped back, and rolled down the hill, her skirts muddying as she tumbled, hair ensnared in twigs and leaves. She found her feet, and ran.

Gunshots flew over her head as she ducked under the low-hanging branch.

Lise watched her tumble down the hill and swore under her breath. She waited for Claire to stand and begin her flee before heading off after her.

* * *

Lise caught up with the fleeing woman just as Jack Randall forcibly spun her and threw her against the tree, yanking her dress up to her waist. Lise's eyes narrowed and she pulled a knife out her boot. Throwing with alarming accuracy, the knife whistled through the air and landed solidly in Randall's hand, planting itself into the tree. The hilt pressed into the flesh of his skin, indenting his flesh and causing him to cry aloud in pain. Claire started and locked eyes with Lise, who strode over to Randall and tugged the knife out of his hand. He curled into a ball, clutching his hand to his chest. Lise once again grapped Claire's arm, and pulled the shocked woman away.

"Come on!" Lise hissed. "We've got to go! Now!" Lise spun and halted face to face with a Highlander's sword. The point grazed Lise's nose, releasing with a slight twang. Lise stood perfectly still, her arm still twisted behind her, fingers wrapped around Claire's wrist. The Highlander stared at her with equal suspicion, before leaping to life, whacking Randall on the head with the hilt. The man crumpled like a child's doll. The Highlander nodded his head to an area just behind him.  
"Greas ort!" He said urgently, holding out his hand to Claire, and gesturing for her to follow him. "Greas ort!" His gaze flicked to Lise and more of the unfamiliar words tumbled from his lips. Lise was willing to move, and indeed, began to, but Claire was the one to grasp his hand and let herself be lead away by the Highlander.

* * *

Claire sat slumped on Murtagh's horse, held on by his strong arm, as Lise walked alongside. Her steps were confident and long, as though she hadn't been walking for miles prior, her words similarly confident. She spoke loudly, so loudly that she made Claire stir on the horse. She came to, and glanced across to the loud woman.

"Where are we?" Claire murmured, pushing her hair out of her face.

"We'll be there in an hour or so," Answered Murtagh cryptically. Lise rolled her eyes.

"He willnae tell me where we're going, as though I cannae tell what direction we're going and I dinnae ken basic geography," Lise laughed. "Go on, give us a clue, Murtagh." She swayed in her step, nudging the Highlander with her shoulder, colliding heavily with his leg. The horse barely faltered, and Murtagh only graced her with a single, dismissive look. Lise beamed broadly, as Claire merely watched the exchange somewhat alarmed. The connection the two women made seemed to share an understanding as Lise's eyes darkened for a fraction of a second and she nodded once at Claire. Then she continued her babbling – "Well, I didnae ken about you two, but I'm fucking starving. Hope there's food wherever you're taking us."

Claire did not speak for the remaining hour's journey, nor did Murtagh, except to tell Lise to 'wheest' every now and again. Initially Lise was outraged, spitting back at him:  
"Wheest?! I willnae wheest, you fuckin' wheest yourself." Her scowl had not remained on her face for long, however, as she was soon back to commenting on everything she saw. Every step Lise took brought into view a new plant, or animal to comment on, and every word brought a heavy glower from Murtagh. Claire was relieved and terrified in equal measure when the small cottage loomed around the corner, smoke billowing out of its chimney. She had no idea what the men inside might do to her, and she could not understand Lise's ease at their situation. The cottage also caused Lise to fall quieter, and mutter something under her breath. Claire couldn't quite catch the words Lise said, but they did not sound like English to her, and Claire's fear bubbled up through her once again.

* * *

Murtagh banged the door out to the cottage violently, his hand grasping Claire's arm firmly. He grabbed Lise by the scruff of the neck, pushing her in ahead of them, before stomping in behind. The door swung shut behind them, stealing away the light that had flooded into the room, causing it to be awash with blinding light then plunged back into darkness. Claire squinted as she tried to make her eyes adjust faster, and make sense of the visual world around her, as words in a foreign dialect swam around her, threading through her ears and addling her mind. Lise was uncannily still, back to Claire, staring down one of the men in front of her. Her silence was uncharacteristic and disconcerting, until she cut across the chatter of the Highlanders.

"Boys, if you're gonna talk about the Sassenach like she's no here, at least have the common courtesy to do it in a language she understands," Lise scolded, before brushing aside and sitting on the table, her feet resting on the bench.

"And who might you be?" Dougal asked, nearing the woman, hand drifting towards the hilt of his sword. Lise watched his hand move to the hilt and smiled, a feral, daring smile.

"Lise. You don't get my surname," she answered, stretching out her legs and rolling her shoulder in its joint. "Anyway, I thought the debate was over whether or no she was a whore?" Claire's gaze snapped to her, and she finally spoke.

"I am not a whore." Her voice was clipped and cold. Words continued to fly around her in Gaelic.

"We could put her to the test," joked one of the Highlanders by the table. Dougal turned to scold him, but Lise moved faster. Pulling the knife from her boot once more, she pressed it to the man's thigh, sharp edge pointing inwards.

"You so much as look at her like a piece of meat, and I will cut your balls off," Lise hissed. She glowered at the man in front of her, holding her position for a long five seconds, before sheathing the knife again. She tapped the fearful man's face condescendingly. "There's a good lad."

* * *

Claire did not know what savage world she had stumbled into, nor who this bizarre, violent, loud-mouthed woman was, but she did know in her heart that she was far from home. This was not the 20th century, and escape back to Frank didn't seem like it would be a simple task. But she had seemed to have found herself a defender – why Lise reacted so violently was unknown, but Claire couldn't help but feel somewhat grateful to the woman. Claire had hoped to simply keep her head down and her mouth shut, but then seeing Jaime in such pain as the men moved to force his shoulder back into its joint… well, the outcry wasn't entirely conscious, merely habit. Her fixing of Jaime's shoulder seemed to secure her and Lise's status as part of the group, and caused her to be stuck to Jaime's side, his own personal nurse in the wild ride through the Scottish Highlands. Lise was less fortunate, lumped on a horse with Murtagh, the two of them bickered the entire ride through the night. Half way through the night, Lise insisted on moving up level with Jaime and Claire, and flung a fleece at her.

"I can see you shivering from back there, even with your man-candy's plaid wrapped around you," Lise grumbled, tugging her waterproof layer back over her head. "Didnae want you getting hyperthermia now, do we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Lise slithered off her horse inelegantly. She groaned as her feet collided with the ground, stretching out her back as she scanned her surroundings. Stood somewhat meekly behind Jamie was Claire. She couldn't be more conspicuous despite her attempts to fade into the background. The dirtied white dress hung above her knees, making her the sole person in the yard with visible bare skin, aside from their face. Her hair hung in a ratty mess to her shoulders, where the men had shorter hair – or if it was longer, it was restrained in plaits. She was coated with mud, and the odd smear of blood from tending to Jaime's wounds, splatter marks spread up her shins, and between her thighs there was the unmistakable purpling stain of a bruise.

Even Lise blended in better, at first glance simply looking like one of the men. On second glance, however, Lise was distinctly not of this time. Where Claire could pass her dress off as a slip, Lise wore materials that did not yet exist. Even the most idiotic idiot from the 17th century could identity her boots as military, her leggings, whilst plain black, shimmered in the light in the way only polyester can – and her coat? Well, that was strange even in her own time. Not many people wore university rowing splash jackets outside of their club, and Lise was regretting her decision now. At least it was black, she thought, as she self-consciously scratched at the back of her neck, trying to think how she might explain her way out of this. Lise moved over to Claire and muttered into her ear:

"Something tells me Imma burn as a witch in a few days."  
Claire glanced over at her, and flicked her with the back of her hand to silence her. For once in her life, Lise complied. Lise's silence seemed to sit uneasily with Jamie, who hurriedly introduced them to Mrs Fitzgibbons. Claire stood, uncertain of the appropriate response and merely looked at the ground, a picture of modesty and polite hesitation. Lise met Mrs Fitzgibbon's gaze steadily, and inclined her head.

"Pleasure to meet you, mistress," Lise spoke with a cautiousness and articulation which surprised both Jaime and Claire. Lise glanced at Claire as she straightened her neck and back and saw the surprise. "Ach, would ye wipe that look off yer face, I can be polite if needs be," Lise spoke quickly, back in her usual tone and timbre. The swift change in voice seemed to amuse Mrs Fitzgibbons, and she let out a booming laugh that echoed around the courtyard.

"Come on in lassie, we'll get you cleaned up, and _both_ of you dressed appropriately, in no time," Mrs Fitzgibbons chuckled, moving to shepherd both women inside.

* * *

Whilst Claire tended to Jamie's wound, Lise sat up in the kitchens. Women bustled around her, preparing food for the returning men, sweeping the ground with their skirts as they performed their endless dance around the kitchen. Heat blew past Lise, warming her core and her soul as it wafted warmth and the smell of food into her nose and mouth. Lise clutched a hand to her stomach as it growled loudly, as though she was attempting to squash the sound back into her gut.

"When did ye last eat?" worried Mrs Fitzgibbons as she hurried back into the kitchens, appearing behind Lise like a ghost. Lise leapt in her skin, as the woman spoke, before hastily stumbling out an answer. Mrs Fitzgibbons' disapproval was seen in the piles of bannocks that she stacked on to a plate and slid across to the young woman. A bowl of broth quickly followed. Lise wolfed it down, the first bite causing the pangs of hunger to engorge her fully.

"Oh my days," murmured Lise, "This is the best thing I've ever eaten." Lise moaned happily, closing her eyes and chewing ravenously. Mrs Fitzgibbons placed a hand on her shoulder, and smiled broadly.

"Just for that, you can call me Mrs Fitz," beamed Mrs Fitzgibbons. "Now, you eat up lass."

* * *

Both Lise and Claire went to the same room to change, and the oddities of their dress was further revealed. Lise was wearing so many layers that Claire was practically fully dressed by the time Lise was in her undergarments. Claire's corset was being tightened by Mrs Fitz when Lise tossed her bra away and into the fire.

"Fuck me, I hated that thing," She sighed in relief. "The wires always dig into my ribs – do you get that Claire?" Claire wasn't given a chance to answer before Lise continued talking – "Oh, of course, ye willnae. Sorry, forgot how different yours will be." Claire and Mrs Fitz stared at her in alarm. Lise winced and wrapped her arms around her chest, suddenly aware of her nudity as the two women stared at her. "I'll wheest." she pressed her hand to her mouth as though to demonstrate her coming silence. Mrs Fitz finished her tightening of Claire's corset, and picked up the next set of clothing. She stood in front of Lise and waited patiently. Lise glanced at Claire who laughed at her. Lise smiled at the laughter; it was the first time she'd heard Claire laugh.

"You need to wash. You're filthy!" Claire gestured at the blood on Lise's own face, at the mud that trekked down Lise's neck. Lise lifted a hand and scraped the muck off the side of her neck, leaving a pink welt where the mud had been. She looked at her fingers in surprise, then at Claire, then back at the mud built up under her nail. She hadn't realised how filthy she was as well, the notion that she had ran through the same forest, ridden the same track as Claire, suffered similar injuries hadn't occurred to Lise, and she began to laugh, somewhat hysterically. She was shaking with laughter as she picked up the cloth and began to swipe it over her skin.

* * *

The room they stood in, it would transpire, was to be Claire's room. The bed was made, with thick woollen blankets and thinner cotton sheets lain artfully on top of the mattress. Pillows fluffed and plumped, the room looked about ready to receive royalty – however its carved furniture seemed to impress Lise the most. She ran her fingers over the thick wood, tracing the curves of leaves that made their way to the surface.

Claire rounded on Lise as the door banged shut behind Mrs Fitz, as she left to go ensure the second room was prepared for a guest to inhabit it.

"How can you be so at ease here?" She demanded. "How on Earth can you be okay with all of this?" Lise's eye grew wide, and for the first time, Claire saw pure terror in their depths.

"You think I am at ease?" Lise's voice cracked. Her fingers stilled on the wood, and Claire saw Lise was trembling. "You think that I am okay. Claire, I have no idea how I am going to get out myself of this situation – your attire can be excused. You can make yourself useful, you're a fucking army nurse from the one of the World Wars. You're useful!" Tears began to form in Lise's eyes, but she bit them back angrily. Turning away from Claire, Lise swiped at her eyes and caught her breath.

"We both need to think," Claire began. "If we just get our story straight, then we'll be fine. We just need to bluff our way through the next few days until we can get back to Craigh na Dun, and get back home." Lise scoffed at Claire's words, and sank heavily on to the bed. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back off her face, and causing the thick curls to bounce wildly out in all directions.

"You make it sound so simple," Lise muttered under her breath as Mrs Fitz bustled back in, whipping them back into motion.

* * *

The lying was much easier for Claire than it was for Lise. Claire spun a story of an Englishwoman escaping rough treatment, having fled from Inverness towards Craigh na Dun before being attacked by Jack Randall. Suffering the humiliation of only wearing her slip, Randall had taken her for a whore, when out of nowhere this strange apparition of a woman came to her defence. And, well, Colum knew the rest from there.

When it came to Lise's excuses, they were much harder to weave. Her strange dress was put down to being from Italy, and the unusually thick layers due to her only recently landing back in her homeland. She claimed to be an orphan, her extended family having sent her back to Scotland to live with relatives, only to discover their cottage to have been burnt to the ground by the redcoats. When Colum asked for her name – the entirety of it this time – Lise faltered. A brief internal battle was fought whether to use her real name or not, but even as she was deciding, her name fell from her lips. The betrayal of her tongue rang in her ears even as she said it:

"Elizabeth Stuart."

"Like oor Bonnie Prince Charlie?" Colum asked, wry disbelief raising an eyebrow. Lise smiled demurely, cursed herself silently, and inclined her head.

"We're distant relatives. Share the name, not the privilege. My grandfather was a cousin of James Stuart," Lise smiled once more, before hurriedly clarifying. "- Duke of Cambridge, not James Stuart, the father of Bonnie Prince Charlie." Lise smiled once more - she was smiling too much – and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Colum stood abruptly, and Lise followed, rising with a gracefulness that surprised even herself.

"Well, it is a pleasure to offer our hospitality to any Stuart, but especially one as lovely as yourself," Colum greeted, offering an arm to Lise to guide her to the door. Lise took it thankfully, relief flooding her.

"The pleasure is all mine. Truly, Laird Leoch," Lise returned, inclining her head once more as she rejoined Claire outside the Laird's door. Releasing Lise's arm, Colum gestured for the two women to leave, calling after them an invitation to supper that night. The necessary affirmatives given, Claire and Lise disappeared off down the corridor, this time to Lise's room instead.


	3. Chapter 3

Killing the time between Colum's not-so-subtle interrogation and supper proved less difficult than anticipated. The two women had much to talk about, from how they were going to act as they walked in, to how Claire's future differed from what she anticipated. Lise wove a story for her, her words sketching the images of technological advancement, rising equality and lessening pay gaps. Then, as her story drew to the close Lise knew, it began to fall back towards misogynistic attitudes – attitudes which were encouraged with the election of a single US president.

"At the time, people hated him and thought he was a pig, but no one expected this ootcome. The pay gap widened again, discrimination became more obvious – especially after he built that fucking wall between USA and Mexico. Aye, with hindsight, his election was the tipping point that brought about this ridiculous war," Lise tried to explain. Her grasp of politics and recent history was very much coloured by her own opinions, and she knew this. She had tried to be as neutral as possible, but that was harder than she expected, and so she had dispensed with the diplomacy half way through her recounting of the past 150 years. "So, in conclusion, the world sucks, but the war hasn't broke properly. Fighting is very much still abroad, and whilst everyone has the capability of bombing the others into oblivion, no one is doing that yet."

Claire paused, uncertain of the correct response to Lise's honest analysis of her past. The memory of the Second World War was still so fresh in her own mind, that the sympathy bled out of her without words. She placed a hand on Lise's, and Lise dragged her gaze up to meet Claire's. Lise coughed awkwardly and swiftly threw the conversation to a discussion about Claire's husband.

* * *

All eyes turned to Claire and Lise as they walked to the head table in the hall. The comforting background noise of cutlery scraping, cups sloshing and banging on to the tables, and lively chatter all ceased, a blanket of silence swallowing the life out of the room. Statues stared at the women as they walked, heads held high. Claire's gaze was steady, but cautious. There was a reservation within her, a restraint in her careful footfalls, her eyes glancing around the room every few steps, but only as though she was searching for a familiar face, a comfort in the sea of stone surveillance. Lise, however, burnt through Colum's gaze with contest. Her eyes were bonfires, sparking and smouldering with a barely contained challenge. She seemed to dare Colum with every fibre of her being; just waiting for the call of 'witch'. Both women held a quiet confidence, Claire was steel, Lise, fire.

Arriving at the head table, they halted together. They both curtsied, low and deep. Claire, neat in her curtsey, the figure of traditional femininity. Lise swept her foot out behind her, a delicate, swift arc, a pointed toe, eyes fixed on the Laird and Lady, even as her head tilted towards the ground. They straightened their spines, standing tall and straight. And waited. No one moved. Stillness reigned. Then, with a deafening scrape of wood on stone, the splintering arc of sound that embedded itself into the eardrums of the women, Dougal stood, pulling out a chair between him and Colum. On the far side of Letitia, another Highlander quickly followed Dougal's example. Claire glided around the table to Colum's left-hand side, Lise strode around to the seat by the Letitia, and thus continued their interrogation.

* * *

Plied with food and drink, Claire relaxed and allowed the questions to hit her repeatedly. Unaccustomed to the strength of the Rhenish wine that Colum provided, she was tipsy far faster than she expected. With Colum replenishing her glass whenever it dropped below the halfway mark. Lise was slightly more cautious with her drink, keeping one eye, and ear, on Claire, and only offering non-committal responses to the Lady on her left. Lise managed to avoid the accidental slights that Claire made – Claire had mistook Colum's son for Dougal's, and offered an answer which seemed somewhat contradictory to an earlier statement. It was at this that Lise leapt in, apologetic smile plastered to her face, and took it upon herself to rescue the increasingly inebriated Claire.

"Colum, forgive me, but I think I speak for both of us when I say we've had a long day. If it's not too much trouble, might Claire and I take our leave. The wee lassie's too polite and too Southern to say it herself." Lise spoke lightly, a forced breath of laughter punctuating her request. She stood, and Colum stood with her, offering a hand and guiding her around the table.

"Of course. I do hope to see you in the morn," He said, gravely. Lise smiled once more, a little more tensely this time, and inclined her head in thanks. She linked arms with Claire, and guided her out of the hall, nails digging into Claire's pale flesh even through the heavy fabric.

As they left the hall, Lise hissed her disapproval at Claire, refusing to let go of her arm.

"For fuck's sake, Claire," Lise muttered, "How could you no see that was a ploy?"

* * *

In Claire's slightly dissociated state, she grumbled and fought Lise the entire walk back to their rooms. Lise did not allow Claire's struggles to come to anything, holding her firmly by her elbow, another arm wrapped around her waist, guiding her along the corridor. Lise shushed her, squeezing her fingers into the young woman's side, muttering warnings to Claire.

"Would ye shut up?" Lise hissed as they wandered down the next corridor. "I ken where I'm going, I'm no useless."

"Our rooms were back there," Claire gestured with a wild hand over her head, waving vaguely at the area behind the two of them. "I remember that much." Lise glanced to Claire and didn't bother to answer, instead opening a door and guiding Claire out on to a small walkway along towards a turret. Claire braced herself as a chilling wind brushed through her. The heavy dress protected her somewhat, but the bare skin at her throat and face stung with the sharp needles of air that shot to the women. Lise followed her and shut the door behind them, taking the torch from the far side of the door to light the outside world. Claire cradled her frame in her arms, huddling within herself.

"Thought the fresh air might do ye some good. Sober you up a wee bit," Lise commented, taking ahold of Claire once more. Lise looked out on to the horizon, breathing in the air deeply. "Always loved the country air, but this is something entirely different. Better. Cleaner," She glanced at Claire, who'd leant against the wall, head tilted back and eyes closed. Lise kicked her, gaining the opening of one eye, and a harsh glower.

"Can we go back inside now?"

"Aye, alright. Let's get you to bed, Claire."

* * *

The morning after, Claire's head was pounding as she woke up. The sun too bright through the open curtains, the slight noise of a page turning too loud in her ears.

"Oh good, you're no dead," Lise commented dryly, snapping the book shut with a loud crack. She stood in a rustling of skirts, and swept over to the Englishwoman, who blearily propped herself up on to her elbows. "Ye missed breakfast. I tried to wake ye," Lise paused. "Well. I opened the curtains. I hoped the light would wake ye, and when it didnae, I thought I'd make sure ye did wake up." With that, Lise beamed broadly, and placed the book back down on the table by the fireplace. She waved to the hungover woman, and sauntered out of the room, sidling out of the door in a bustle of tartan skirts. It seemed the women would part for this one day, making their own way and finding their own uses within the castle.

Claire still insisted on the need for travel back to Inverness, and her wish was granted at the leisure of Colum. When he questioned whether Lise would be travelling with her, Claire paused, uncertainty hovering in her action. The question threw Claire, as she had no idea of Lise's wants or needs, and decided to err on the side of caution, asking for travel for Lise as well. Colum's brow had furrowed at this comment, and Claire wondered if she had made the wrong call for the rest of the day.

Lise, however, was enjoying the freedom and freshness of the 18th Century Highlands. She wandered around the castle grounds and surrounding area, familiarising herself with plant life and paths, people and cattle. She swept her way through the grass up to the meadow, watching a colt trot neatly around a fenced area, a masculine figure in the centre, cooing lightly to the colt. As Lise approached, she saw it was Jaime attempting to break the young horse in, and she let a small smile as she heard the soft voice and lilting Gaelic. Jaime caught sight of her as she reached the fence, and murmured to the horse to slow, his voice a whisper on the area. Lise greeted him in his own tongue, choosing it over English – a proof of her identity.

"She's bonny, isn't she?" Jaime seemed almost to be talking to the horse, stroking a hand up her muzzle. Lise leant on the fence and reached out towards her, flat palm. The colt took a few steps towards her, allowing Lise to softly brush her hand between her eyes.

"Aye, she is a stunning creature," sighed Lise. Her hand slowed in the strokes, resting on the horse's face for a moment, before Lise dropped her hand. She crossed her arms and leant heavily on the fence. "How's your shoulder?" Jaime shrugged with his good arm, dismissive.

"Ah, it's but a scratch." He brushed aside Lise's concern without much thought. "Mistress Beauchamp is a good healer. It doesnae really hurt – dinnae fret, wee lassie." Lise beamed, a joy filling her that verged on pride. Despite only knowing Claire for a few days, Lise was surprised at how protective she was of the Englishwoman. But her beam quickly fell.

"Wait – 'wee lassie'? How old do you think I am?" Lise demanded. Jaime quickly turned back to her afraid he'd offended her. Lise met his gaze, and her posture softened. "Just please tell me I look at least 16."

"I'd say you looked about 18? Maybe 19?" Jaime offered, his answer coming slowly, hesitant, in case of further offense. But he didn't need worry, for Lise broke into a smile as broad as the horizon and skipped on the spot. Her glee burst forth in bubbles of giggles and she literally jumped with joy. Skirts in hand, she skipped in circles for a minute before stopping at beaming at Jaime. Raising herself up on to the lowest rung of the fence, she lightly kissed his cheek.

"Jaime MacTavish, you have made my day."


	4. Chapter 4

The day for Claire's departure approached, the days between that and her arrival stretching long. It seemed less five days, and more five weeks to Claire, whose thoughts lingered on her travel back to the stones, and hopefully, back to her own time. Her means of killing time hadn't quite filled the void left in her, the emptiness her own time had filled. Gathering herbs and other flora did provide a welcome distraction, often running into her new-found friend Geillis Duncan up by the edge of the woodland. When alone, Claire hummed songs from the 20th Century to herself, lifting her life with memories of back home.

Conversely, Lise threw herself in the 18th Century. Ever one to create controversy, she refused to change – or even hide – her headstrong nature. She flirted openly, teased, mocked and laughed uproariously. She quite happily would drink with the men, challenge them in ways that Claire dared not to, and joked with Mrs Fitz in the kitchens. She could be found anywhere on the grounds, from trailing after Dougal, pestering him with questions, to sat with Claire's watchers, drinking happily, to wandering up to chat to Jaime in the stables. The women's interactions grew less and less over the days, only really seeing each other at meals and when they both happened to visit Jaime up at the stables. It wasn't until the morning of Claire's departure rose, that they properly talked, sat in the warmth of Claire's room.

The fire crackled in the grate, logs smouldering themselves into ash. Tendrils of heat spewed out into the room, lighting it with a warm orange glow, and casting great shadows sprawling into the corners of the room. The smoke that rose up the chimney swirled in the air, creating patterns of mist against the stonework. Shimmering, almost, in the morning air, the smoke lifted the stonework from its lifeless shape, and seemed to make the wall sigh with relief. Heat threw itself out into the room, wrapping Lise in a comforting embrace.

"What did ye want to say?" Asked Lise, sitting down by the fire and rubbing her hands together. She tried to convince her hands to stop creaking like old oak, stretching them out, and warming her muscles. She stretched out her fingers, splaying them wide, before returning to rubbing them vigorously. Claire sat down lightly on the chair, gathering her skirts up with a simple sweep of her hand.

"I meant to tell you earlier, but I have arranged transport back to Inverness," She paused. "Back to the stones, I mean." Lise looked up from the fire, trying to find the relevance to her in Claire's face.

"Bon voyage?" Lise offered questioningly, waiting for the following statement, certain that Claire wasn't simply saying goodbye. "When do you leave?"

" _We_ leave tonight," Claire pressed the emphasis through. Lise stood. Anger filled her. Sweeping her skirts behind her, Lise faced Claire, seeming to tower over her; a figure of impressive, unexpected rage. Claire pushed herself up from the chair and looked Lise straight in the eye. "We can't stay here, and you know it. We don't belong here," Claire insisted.

"No, we don't. But we are here," Lise retorted. "I didnae want to go home. And who's to say that the stones will even take us back? What if it flings us back to the Roman Occupation? How exciting would that be? We could meet Boudicca!" The false excitement in her voice was cutting. Claire tried to speak, but Lise raised a hand sharply, cutting across the beginnings of a word. Lise turned away from Claire.

"I simply thought you'd want to have a chance at going home," Claire protested to Lise's back. Defensive, and argumentative, Claire's words were as sharp as Lise's had been. Lise spun back to face her, her face beginning to crumple, eyes softened from flames to sorrow. Her anger faded, seeping out of her as quickly as it had risen. Somehow, the hollowed sorrow struck a chord with Claire more than Lise's anger had. Lise still bubbled with irritation, annoyed that Claire hadn't even thought to include her in this decision.

"Did ye no listen to me before? My time is not home to me. My family is largely dead and gone. There is a war being fought, and I do not want to go home," Lise spat, her throat closing in on itself. She pronounced her final seven words carefully, enunciating the words to prevent Claire from possibly misinterpreting her words. Her voice cracked slightly. "You should have told me sooner."

* * *

The carriage rattled its way into the grounds, bumping over the uneven cobbles and jostling its way into the lives of those at Castle Leoch. The sound of the horses' hooves collided with the walls of the castle, and seeping through the gaps the windows provided. Bouncing to a halt, Claire's escape route sat waiting for her down in the courtyard.

Mrs Fitz bustled around the kitchen, gathering various different food items together, placing them carefully in a wicker basket. She muttered under her breath, counting off the mental list she had made.

"What am I forgetting?" she murmured aloud, halting in her path in the kitchen. Lise, resting her feet on the same stone perch that she sat on, looked up from her nails. She had been digging dirt out from underneath them with a sharp knife. Flicking the mud off the knife and into the fire, she stood. She peeked into the basket and spun, gathering the bannocks off the table behind her, and offering them to Mrs Fitz.

"Every picnic basket needs some of these beauties," She grinned. "Come on, let's go say farewell to our favourite Sassenach."

Claire placed her newly gained belonging on the cart, turning to say goodbye to the two women that stood behind her.

"Thank you, Mrs Fitz," Claire spoke with a smile on her face and in her voice. Gratitude seeped into her broad smile, her hand still resting on the basket. Mrs Fitz beamed.

"Think nothing of it, lass," Mrs Fitz dismissed, placing a maternal hand on Claire's cheek and biding her a safe journey. Claire thanked her once more, and embraced the cook warmly. When they parted, Claire turned to look to Lise.

"Could you look after Jaime?" She blurted out. "His bandage needs to come off tomorrow, but it might still need-" She cut off abruptly as Lise enveloped her in a hug. Lise grinned as she lightly squeezed her fellow future dweller, and drew back, her hands lingering on Claire's arms.

"Dinnae be daft, of course I'll tend to him," Lise cut across Claire's instructions. Claire pulled a small leather bound notebook from her small basket of belongings.

"I wrote down all the uses for all the herbs I could think of. You never know when you might need it," She offered. Lise took the notebook gratefully, and pulled Claire back into a one armed hug. She kissed the woman lightly on the cheek and drew away.

"Now, don't ye get into any fights without me." Lise offered as a means of farewell. She grinned at Claire before her eyes drifted across to Dougal who stood, facing Claire;s back. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, as usual, and his eyes were dark, despite the falseness of friendliness he attempted to contort his face into.

"Colum wishes to speak with ye."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter why."

* * *

Lise sat in her room, collapsed on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She wondered if Colum had let Claire leave after their little chat, or if she was still stuck at Castle Leoch, and if she was still here, how displeased she would be about it. Lise didn't know if she would be grateful at Claire's continued existence here, to have an ally that was equally displaced, or if the jealousy she knew brewed in the pit of her stomach would make her miserable. Lise was jealous, she wouldn't hide that from herself, she wasn't prepared to lie to herself, but she would never admit it to anyone. Claire had found a way to make herself useful in this past, but she didn't want to stay. She was almost a part of the castle, familiar and welcome, if a little strange. Yet, Lise was still noticeably other. She had no relevant skills, she wasn't useful anymore, except to tease the young boys, play fight with them. Dougal had tried to worm out of her the origins of her skills with knives, but Lise had merely dismissed it.

"When you share the name and none of the privileges of Bonnie Prince Charlie, people come after you. Eventually I learned that you can't rely on anyone but yourself to have your back, so I taught myself to defend myself."  
Dougal had swallowed her explain, accepting it as the truth – which, in Lise's defence was basically what it was. She had learnt to defend herself because she couldn't rely on anyone else. But not because she was related to a would-be-king. The only perks to using her real name was that it brought an assumption of aristocracy, and with that the assumption that she would have been used to people running around after her. If Lise ever asked a question that should have been obvious, it was dismissed as privilege sheltering her from the realities of life.


	5. Chapter 5

Claire had found her niche in this backwards society. She despised the men that tailed her – not on a personal level, she had no qualms with them as people, but their very presence reminded her that she was essentially a captive. She existed to serve in this world, her destiny no longer hers to guide, but formed itself at the leisure of the Laird. At least she was proving herself useful, her knowledge of herbs and treatment of wounds made her a vital asset to the Laird and his brother. Claire was settling, unwillingly, into her particular niche within Castle Leoch, and Lise teetered on the edge of a knife.  
Expendable, with no exploitable traits, and more crucially, a woman with no exploitable traits, keeping Lise was growing increasingly costly by the hour. Her skills were not 'proper' for the highborn woman she was pretending to be, and much harder to explain. Her defining characteristics were bred from a life of comparable freedom, of something closer to gender equality, and this twisted her into an unseemly woman in the eyes of Colum. She spent her days wandering the grounds, making herself known to those living in and around Castle Leoch, making her someone who would be missed. Claire searched the bottom of her leaves, ground up with her pestle and mortar, whilst Lise searched the world for a utility that might spare her from the pyre. Only her surname saved her from the accusations of sorcery, but that would last only as long as no one wrote a letter of inquiry to almost anyone.

* * *

When Shona Macneill's son died, the combined impudence of both women acted both as their saviour and a crucial turning point in their acceptance in Castle Leoch.

Claire was the one to insist upon visiting the sick nephew of Mrs Fitz, dragging Angus in tow behind her. Whilst she argued with the Father, over whether his sickness was a possession or a poisoning, the will of God, the act of a demon, or simply the error of child, eating the wrong thing, breathing in the wrong spores, Lise snuck away to the ruined church. She scanned the grounds for any signs of children's play, of the movements of wildlife – toys abandoned, shifted stones, patterns in the grounds – anything a superstitious priest might decide was the work of ghosts and demons. Lise stood in the ruined window of the church, one hand resting against the stone remnants of the window support, the other holding her skirts still, as Jaime and Claire arrived.

* * *

Lise dropped her skirts in a bustle of fabric, the noise joining in with the sounds of the wind, imagining a harmony of hurrying figures fleeing from the church. The sound unnerved Jaime. He steeled himself as to not appear cowardly in front of the two brazen women, but both noted the way his shoulders straightened, his hand resting on the hilt of the weapon at his hip.

"There's a wild cat den to the East," Lise spoke to Claire. "And this place carries sound like no other. I wouldnae be surprised if ye could hear people talking down in the village on a still night." Lise concluded her report, and stepped off the remains of the window into the air. She seemed to hang for a moment, suspended by the air itself; an unseen figure holding her aloft in a display of strength. Then she fell, landing firmly on the ground, the soft earth soaking up the noise of her collision. Claire ignored her, searching the foliage for some explanation of the effect of the poisoning. Lise followed her, and lurked over her shoulder, causing Claire to start.

"Do you have to be so nosey all the time?" Claire blurted out with a flourish of her skirts as she turned to face the other woman. She looked disapprovingly at the younger woman. Lise merely beamed at her.

"You say nosey, I say 'possesses an intellectual curiosity'," chirped Lise in response, before swishing her skirts around to face Jaime. "You ever come up here? As a boy, I mean?" Jaime nodded, and the two of them walked back towards the kirk, leaving Claire to hunt for the offending plant alone.

"Aye. Most of the boys did. Visiting the Black Kirk and living to tell the tale was a way to prove your manhood," Jaime spoke as he inspected the walls of the kirk, a hand trailing along the crumbling stones as he looked in through the overgrown, low entrance. His gaze was lost in his own memories of visiting the ruin, mind drifting away back into his past. Lise hopped back up on to the wall, watching the Highlander with a barely disguised curiosity, and an implacable look passed over her face; Jaime's reminiscence tugging at her gut with an indescribable sorrow that she squashed inside her. Crossing her legs, moving to distract herself from her own feelings, her skirt caught on the stone of the kirk, tugging the fabric up to reveal the pale freckled skin of her left calf, and the military grade boots she continued to wear, era appropriate footwear be dammed. Her curiosity at Jaime consumed her, and she tilted her head to keep watching him as he moved towards her at a snail's pace.

"Well," she broke the silence with a single word, the tension in the air shattering at the whip-crack of her voice. "You seem fairly alive to me, your 'manhood' must be intact. What did your trial of masculinity involve?" Jaime glanced back up at her, seemingly shaken out of his reverie. Lise met his gaze and raised an eyebrow; an unspoken dare glinting in her eye. "Dinnae tell me… you had to fight the demon with your bare hands – like Beowulf with the Grendel?" Jaime frowned at the reference he did not quite understand but did not raise it into question. Lise made a mental note that Beowulf was not a thing to mention again. Jaime merely scoffed at Lise, and laughed wryly.

"I'm an educated man, mistress," as Jaime spoke, he moved from the doorway, instead leaning on the wall next to the window sill that Lise perched on. His gaze rested on her face, deliberately and purposely not looked at the bared skin. "Maybe not as educated as you," he conceded as he continued, "But I had a tutor. He taught Latin, and Greek, and such. No childhood stories aboot fairies and demons; waterhorses in lochs." Lise smiled at his teasing tone, and leant towards him, pressing a finger to her lips and shushing the highlander softly. As her finger fell to her side, her eyebrow raised itself once more.

"Dinnae mock the kelpies," she whispered to Jaime, her breath brushing over his skin as she leant in towards his ear. "They might hear you." The laugh that followed was full of light and air, bubbling through the peace of the Black Kirk. When Lise's ;aughter faded, Jaime's face turned more serious.

"But I am also a highlander, born and bred," he began, more serious. Lise glanced over at Claire, who was moving deeper into the foliage, almost disappearing from sight, and she cut across the Highlander's warning tone before he could finish.

"And as a result, you're no idiot enough to make fun of Ol' Nick in his own kirkyard, unlike yours truly?" Lise grinned and winked at Jaime. Jaime allowed a small smile, but his gaze remained as serious as his voice.

"No. I'm no," came the clipped reply, and he swiftly marked the sign of the cross across his chest. Lise's smile fell from her eyes, but lingered on her lips for moment longer. She slithered off the stone window, her thigh scraping across the stone, leaving a smear of blood on the stone. Penance, she supposed, and slightly murmured an apology to the Kirk itself. Just in case.

She moved back alongside the Highlander, the sway of her skirts matching his pondering, aimless wander.

"We'd caper mostly – when we came. Climb on the walls," Jaime stepped up on the walls of the ruins and seemed to move with a touch more energy than before. "Mebbe we'd piss on the stones to defy the devil. If ye were lucky, ye might find some berries or wood garlic to eat." Something resounded in Lise's memory, a warning from her mother when she ran off to play in the woods as a child, perhaps. She did not know for certain what drove her to lift her head, and call to Claire, but some part of her recognised the importance.

"Claire – wood garlic!"  
Claire's response was the same, confirming Lise's suspicions, and she hurried back towards Jaime and Lise.

"Wood garlic? Where? Show me."

* * *

The plan evolved from that moment. Conjured by Lise, they developed their plan in the ruins of the kirk. Based around Lise's faith in Claire's ability to make an antidote in such a short space of time, and her own ability to trick and manipulate Father Bain into leaving the boy's side, the two of them agreed on the deception. It relied heavily on luck. Too heavily. It unnerved Lise, and her heart beat at an irregular, increasingly rapid pace. She felt the pulsing of her arteries in her ears as she strode towards the house, and the poisoned boy. The two of them reached the door, and Lise glanced at Claire, as though to see if she shared the same apprehension. If Claire did, she did not show it.

"Ready for the misogyny?" asked Lise. Claire let out a huff of disapproval.

"We'd better get used to it. Or at least find ways to work around it," Claire responded, lifting a hand to the door. "I doubt it is going anywhere any time soon." And with that she pushed on the door, and they hurried inside.

* * *

Whilst Claire explained to Mrs Fitz the truth of her nephew's sickness, Lise went to Father Bain's side. She wove her words carefully, creating a tangled web of half-truths, and outright lies, ensnaring the Father into her trap. She spoke of sorrow for the boy's condition, and the inability to save him, god bless his soul, describing how if only there was a way to rid the Black Kirk of the demons, cut the Devil's snare off at the root, as it were. But alas, she was only a woman, and not ordained by God as one who could drive away the demon. The tears that glistened in her eyes seemed so genuine, and the final piece of the puzzle was the exorcism she had heard her tutor's brother say so many times before, if only she were able to use it. Father Bain strode out of the house, taking Lise with him, and demanding that she tell him the exorcism. As they left, Lise mouthed to Claire a single phrase: _what a dick_. The door shut behind the two figures, Claire hurried to the boy's bed, and administered the decoction of belladonna.

* * *

The whirl of words echoed around the old ruins, the stone reverberating the words intoned by Father Bain, scrawled on a scrap of parchment in Lise's hand.

 _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare... Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis... Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine... quem inferi tremunt... Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos._

Father Bain accepted the praise for his exorcism working, banishing the demons from the Balck Kirk, leaving the sole demon possessing Tammas entirely alone. Faced with the idea of possessing the child alone, with no other demons to back it, the demon possessing the boy had fled him, allowing him to recover.  
Mrs Fitz and her sister never spoke of Claire's involvement in his recovery. Sworn to secrecy, the women held the truth in their minds and memories, and Father Bain took the glory for himself.

However, those visiting the Black Kirk in the future knew well enough not to eat the wood garlic that grew there. Some even knew the name of the poisonous plant that grew there; Lily of the Valley. How this knowledge spread, the rumours and murmurs that warned about its consumption, no one would ever know. No one needed to know. They just needed to listen, and heed the villagers warnings.


	6. Chapter 6

The Gathering set the castle into a bustle of movement. The kitchens were alive with a frenzy of movement, the constant ebbing and flowing of skirts, a tidal exchange of people, meats and bannocks making it impossible to stay still for more than a few seconds. Mrs Fitz was at the heart of the hustle of women, pausing in her movements only to order people around, a sharpness to her voice that cut through the air demanding all authority. No one dared question Mrs Fitz, and no one had time to, they simply got on with the task assigned to them.

That is, everyone except Claire's ever-present shadows. They lurked in the kitchens, drinking, laughing, and generally being a nuisance. Claire herself was nowhere near the kitchens, having emerged from her surgery, only to be summoned up to Colum's chambers. Whilst she followed the boy up to Colum's chambers, Angus and Rupert lingered behind, still grumbling about how Claire had made them miss the festivities that morning whilst she played with the child. Nearby, Lise's ears pricked. Like a cat upon hearing rustling in the bushes, Lise halted her movements, holding still, tense, and tilted her head slightly, subtly listening into their conversation. She held her posture like that for a few moments, before Mrs Fitz batted her around the ear.

"If yer no going to pull yer weight, ye can leave my kitchen." Mrs Fitz spoke in a clipped tone that was not unkind, simply filled with the strain that the Gathering brought upon her.

"Sorry," blurted out Lise, and she returned to moving the food around the kitchen, sorting food into neat piles. But the conversation between the two men lingered in the back of her mind, a caution bell tolling quietly in the distance.

* * *

The oath-taking was due to start in the next hour, and Lise had barely finished dressing for the occasion when Mrs Fitz bustled back into the room, tugging a reluctant Claire in tow.

"I dinnae think you were going to come to the ceremony," Lise commented lightly, deftly brushing her hair up into knot on the back of her head. She watched Claire in the mirror as she tugged strands of hair loose, arranging them about her face, softening her features. Claire met Lise's gaze in the reflection and saw the hardness in her eyes.

"Didn't think I'd be welcome, what with me being a Sassenach," dismissed Claire. Lise turned around, and smiled at the woman, any trace of warning gone from her eyes. She laughed lightly, warmly, turning instead to Mrs Fitz. She thanked the woman warmly for lending her a dress suitable for the occasion, gushing her compliments and gratitude with a sincerity that seemed to verge on sarcastic. Mrs Fitz didn't notice the excess in her praise, and merely beamed at the praise.

"Ye must be so busy in the kitchens, I can help Claire dress if ye need to get back?" offered Lise, as Mrs Fitz lifted out an outfit from the trunk in the corner. The relief on Mrs Fitz's face was evident, even as she spoke her protests. Lise would not have any of it, taking the assorted garments from Mrs Fitz and gathering her out of the room, in much the same way that Claire has been ushered into it.

When the heavy door closed behind Mrs Fitz with a definitive click, the warm appearance slipped from Lise's face. She dropped the clothes on to the bed and stared at Claire.

"How many times do we have to have the same fucking conversation, Claire?" She demanded. "Ye cannae leave. Ye ken it, I ken it – Geillis fucking kens it –"

"Geillis?" Claire was confused for a split second, but Lise continued her berating as though the English woman had not spoken, and Claire instantaneously forgot the mention of her fellow healer.

" – running back to the stones isnae gonna help us. And that's if ye got there. What ye planning on doing? Fight all the clansmen in yer escape? Claire, yer a smart woman, so fucking act like one." The two women stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Lise heaved out a heavy breath, all willingness to continue her verbal attack seemingly gone, but the fury lingering.

"Are you quite finished?" Claire asked, somewhat coldly.

"Aye!" Snapped Lise. Then, with a deliberate, and difficult, exhale, she repeated her answer, more calmly. "Aye. I am." She met Claire's gaze for a moment longer. It lasted an eternity, before Lise broke eye contact and glanced to the ground. She crossed her arms. And uncrossed them. Claire did not stop looking at her, accusations threading themselves through her gaze; a spider's web of an ensnarement, just waiting for Lise to incriminate herself. Lise glanced at the dress she had thrown on the bed, and slowly picked it up. She looked questioningly at Claire, who closed her eyes in resignation, and began to undress, accepting the non-verbal offer.

* * *

Lise leant over the bannister eagerly, watching as Dougal strode forwards, pausing at the foot of his brother. He lingered for a heart-stopping moment, and Lise fixed her gaze more deeply on the younger brother, half-expecting him to refuse to take the oath. Then, a collective sigh of relief exhaled from the walls of Castle Leoch itself, and Dougal bent a knee, reciting his oath with strong, defiant words. Lise was enthralled by the oath taking. Where Claire lost interest immediately, her thoughts turning straight back to her plan, Lise watched and listened to each oath in turn, noting the difference in tone. None matched the authority of Dougal, however, Angus' commitment was surprisingly resonate. Each man brought a different nuance to the oath, and Lise hungrily drank it all in. She was so caught up in the moment, that she did not even notice Claire slink off into the shadows.

It wasn't until half way through the oath taking, when a lump suddenly rose in Lise's throat, that she turned to murmur words to Claire, only to find her friend had vanished. Murtagh stood stoically in her place, and Lise clamped her mouth shut once more.

"If you've got something to say, it's better out than in," Murtagh relinquished roughly. He seemed as unenthusiastic to hear Lise's thoughts as she was to share them with him. Lise turned back to look down into the hall and shrugged.

"Just wondering where Jaime is. Would have expected to see him at something like this."

"If ye see that boy, tell him to keep his snout hidden until this display is over, ye ken?" Murtagh grasped Lise's wrist, his voice gaining a new degree of gruffness. Lise winced, tugging her arm free, and nodded. Murtagh glanced at the thin wrist he held and let go as quickly as he had grasped it, an apology almost said. Lise almost accepted it. Instead she just rubbed her wrist, somewhat sulkily, and headed off, following Claire's trail into the woods.

* * *

Lise hurried along the corridor, barely ten seconds after Claire had swept through. She was so intent on following her friend through the castle, on stopping her fleeing into the woods and finding herself in a situation that she could never hope of untangling, that Lise was oblivious to the three men that stepped out behind her. Oblivious, that was, until one of them grabbed her arm and yanked her back, pushing her up against the wall. Lise's heart stopped. Fear spiked through her, driving her elbow into the gut of the man that held her. Instinctually, her fist curled, and she punched the man in front of her in the nose. Her knuckles crunched on the impact, shifting in their socket and sending rivers of pain up her forearm, but one man remained. She moved to shove him from her, but a voice dismissed them.

Dougal. Lise never expected that he would be her saviour in this moment, yet there he was. Her shoulders relaxed as her attackers left, slinking away like wounded dogs, scolded by their master. Dougal merely fixed his eyes on Lise, the scurrying figures of no consequence to him. Lise breathed out her relief, a thank you flying out on her exhale. She did not think that her gratitude would be misplaced. She did not smell the Rhenish on his breath as he neared her. She did not think that the attack in this dark corridor, far from the main crowd, was not yet over.

* * *

Claire had been talked out of her departure by the time that Lise bustled into the stables. They were deserted. Jaime and Claire had already started to walk back to the castle, about to get ambushed themselves, but at least they were together. Claire had her eternal protector of Jaime to escort her back, leaving Lise only with a scrap of a tartan blanket as evidence anyone had been there.

Lise pressed her head against the wall she did not realise she had fallen back on to. Allowing herself to slide back down the wall, the tears began to form, her breath hitching in the back of her throat. She collapsed on to the floor, her hand falling between the legs that she couldn't quite close. Her skirts crumpled in a heap as she pressed them with a splayed hand. She didn't know if she hoped that pressure would detract from the pain, or if she covered herself then the deed would not have been done. She landed heavily on the ground and wept.

* * *

She remained there until after Jaime pledged his loyalty to Colum; no vow, no oath, only the promise of a kinsmen. Jaime had returned to the stable to collect anything he might have left, simply intending to glance over the floor before heading to bed when he found the young girl, eyes still damp with tears that had flowed continually. The dimness of the stable hid her identity from him for a few moments, her laboured breathing indicating her presence to him. Jaime called out hesitantly, only to receive a feeble reply of:

"Forgive me. I was just going." from Lise as she scrambled to her feet. Swelling made standing difficult, painful. She swiped at her cheeks roughly, smearing dust and muck on to her face, as Jaime grasped a torch from the entrance and swung it closer, to see who had hidden in his stable.

"Lise?" The surprise in his voice was evident even to her, in her disrupted state. "Are you alright?" Lise nodded, not trusting her voice enough to speak. When Jaime probed slightly further, she could not contain her tears again.

"I froze," she answered vaguely. "I just let - I..." she trailed off into a series of gasping, hiccuping breaths. Jaime glanced over her frame, and noticed the growing stain below her waist, a deep reddish brown, and the tang of iron in the air. Blood. It had been soaked up by the many layers of material that she wore, but the evidence of a brutal, and violent rape showed itself on her clothes, a prominent badge of her current trauma.

Jaime loosened his plaid, wrapping it around Lise, covering her figure in an attempt to... he didn't even know. Spare her public humiliation, perhaps? As he draped it over her shoulders, she did he last thing he expected, and pressed herself against him, her tears coming as full blown sobs, heartfelt and terrified. He gently stroked the back of her head, smoothing the hair that had fallen loose at some point in the night.

"Who did this to ye?" Jaime demanded, an unexpected anger rising in him. It brewed somewhere deeper in his gut than he'd experienced before, and the unfamiliarity of his fury shocked him. Lise's answer only served to add fuel to the fury that bubbled in his gut.


	7. Chapter 7

Lise had needed the escort back to the castle. Despite her best protests that she would be fine, that she could make it back alone without crumbling again, without falling apart once more, she needed the company. Jaime was stoic at her side, comfortingly outraged on her behalf. The tension in his shoulders only grew as they neared the castle, the clench of his jaw daring Dougal to step out, daring Dougal to challenge him. Lise was glad of his presence. He served as a figure to hide behind, to remain half a step back as she walked into the flame-lit corridor. Her heart clenched itself tighter and tighter, every step another coil of rope around the organ, squeezing the life out of her. She drew in her breath through her nose, closing her eyes briefly and physically shaking off the claustrophobia that seemed to be controlling her. The purposefully controlled inhalation helped. She breathed a little easier, her eyes focusing on the corridor ahead, not glancing around every third step.

She lingered outside her door, suddenly gripped by ice, thin tendrils of cold fire shooting through her veins, stilling the blood in her body. Turning back to Jaime, Lise grasped her skirts into fists. A soft bustle of fabric echoed down the stone corridor, deafening and inaudible all at once. Her eyes met Jaime's concern, and the façade she had tried so hard to maintain collapsed, and fear shone through, brighter than the torch that burned fiercely by her door.

"Thank you," Lise stumbled on her words. "For taking me – bringing me, you know, back." The words seemed to stick in her throat, getting lost on the pathway of neurones from her brain to her lips. Her speech was broken, fragmented as she tried to convey her thanks. They were unnecessary. Jaime comforted her once more, dismissing the need for thanks, and swallowing his anger at Dougal. Lise fell silent once more. She turned as if to go into her room, but her hand lingered on the door knob once more. "Jaime?" She asked, not looking around at Jaime. "Didnae say anything – please? To anyone? I didnae want this being known."

"Of course, I wouldnae do that to ye," Jaime began, outrage filling his voice at the thought. Lise chewed on the inside of her lip, toying the flesh between her teeth, ripping into the thin blood vessels that laced through the muscles of her mouth. A harsh iron tang flooded into her mouth, and she swallowed harshly. The taste lingered.

"Jaime. I mean it. No one." Her words weren't quite clipped but held an abruptness that was uncharacteristic of the young woman. A hush of material scraping on the wooden floor, and suddenly Lise was facing Jaime, grasping his arm tightly. "Dinnae even go after Dougal. He was drunk – with all hope, I just mean –" Lise cut off and shut her eyes to the turmoil inside her. Opening her eyes once more, and completing her plea, she spoke more calmly. "Hopefully, come the morn, he willnae remember a thing. And I willnae be disgraced."

She did not wait for Jaime's response, but fled inside her room, shutting the door behind her and collapsing back on it. Her weight pressed on the heavy oak door, causing the hinges to creak softly.

On the far side of the door, Jaime stood, bewildered. The internal debate whether to follow Lise into her room or to heed her ask and simply retire to his own chambers fought itself on his face. He listened for a moment but did not hear any sounds emitting from Lise's room and left her alone.

The next day Lise did not rise early. She lay in her bed, refusing to move until Claire came to fetch her, and complain about her leaving her alone at breakfast. But Claire never came. Instead the knock at the door signalled a different visitor.

The door creaked open slightly, and a mop of red hair poked his head around the door, hesitantly. Lise did not look around to see who it was.

"Mrs Fitz sent me to see if yer still alive," commented Jaime lightly, as he moved around the door, stepping fully into the room. Lise continued to stare listlessly at the ceiling. "Are ye?"

Silence floated through the air, like dust mites, lost on the turbulence of still air disturbed, searching for a safe place to land on their directionless travels. Lise forced herself to sit up, propping herself up on her elbows, and clasping the blanket around her chest.

"Aye," She muttered. Then, raising her eyes to Jaime, she managed a weak smile. "You've no got rid of me yet."  
Jaime smiled at the weak attempt at humour, glad to see Lise moving, joking, acting like herself. When she hadn't appeared downstairs that morning, the concern of the night before became twofold. He hadn't understood quite why her absence seemed to choke his life's blood, but the blood had moved more sluggishly in his veins with every passing minute. It had only grown worse when Claire had eaten, and then departed for the hunt, with no hint of Lise. When an hour had passed from Claire's departure, Jaime had grown too impatient, too worried, to sit still any longer. Seeing Lise acting in her usual manner made his concern ashamed. Ridiculed, indirectly, by Lise's jokes, a faint redness flushed on his cheeks.

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. It'd be awfy quiet round here without someone to keep us in line," Jaime said with a wry grin. "Come on, get dressed. Everyone's off on the boar hunt, need someone to keep me company."

Lise spent the day laughing and joking around with Jaime, the horror of the night before still lurking in her gut, but mostly forgotten. She allowed herself momentary lapses of genuine laughter, letting Jaime enthral her in his actions. The two of them made good use of the near-empty Castle Leoch, wandering the roof-tops of the castle, roaming the grounds surrounding the building, pilfering food from Mrs Fitz's kitchen. They lingered in the stables awhile, Lise helping to groom the young foals.

A fistful of straw and hay was clenched in Lise's hand, a make-shift brush for the animals. She carefully, but firmly swiped the straw over the foal's coat, murmuring quietly to it as Jaime did the same on the animal's other flank.

"I want ta thank ye again," Lise spoke suddenly. "For no making a big deal out of last night. I really needed it to be handled like ye did." Jaime met her gaze over the horse's back, and quirked a small, sympathetic smile at her. Lise smiled back and continued. "And I'm glad ye didnae kill Dougal - though at one point I did think ye'd try – I doubt Colum would have hosted ye much longer if ye'd stabbed his brother."

"No, I cannae imagine he would," Jaime laughed. Lise smiled warmly at him, before breaking eye contact and returning to brushing the coat of the horse. "No. That would not have been a wise course of action," Jaime repeated the agreement thoughtfully. Lise smiled down at the foal, throwing the straw to the floor, and simply petting the animal with her own hand.

"I would have missed ye," She seemed to say to the horse. She paused and glanced up at Jaime. "Jaime Fraser." Jaime faltered now. Hearing his name spoken aloud after so long holding it a secret filled him with a dread he could not contain.

"How do you ken my name?" Jaime demanded. Lise moved around the horse and looked up at the Scot, the shock, and fear, and non-comprehension written as boldly on his face as his hair shone in the sunlight.

"The same way I ken that Geillis isnae who she says she is, and Dougal is doing something shady, but I didnae ken what yet. I listen. And I watch," Lise paused. "Also, Claire told me yer motto is _Je suis prest_ and I ken that's Clan Fraser's motto so, ye know, there is that." She waited a moment and Jaime's dark and wary look suddenly dropped. He began to laugh, a low and bubbling laugh that infected Lise and seemed to spook the horse slightly.

"For a moment, I thought ye were going to say ye were a witch," Jaime laughed. "But no. Yer just a nosey wee lassie, aren't ye?" Lise beamed at him broadly.

"Aye," She chirped. "Maybe if yer lucky, I'll tell ye the truth about who I am."

Lise and Jaime missed the return of the hunters, missed the mournful track back to the castle, a corpse of a young man lain over the back of a horse. They arrived back in the courtyard when only Claire and Dougal remained, neither speaking, the weight of the dead haunting them, an air of guilt and dismay holding them hostage in the bitterly cold air. Lise's laughter and joking were bullets to Dougal's ears, a mockery of his fallen friend. His gaze snapped on to her, cold and vicious. Lise's laughter died when she saw the glower, life stabbed out of it with a piercing icicle of a glare. Jaime was oblivious to Lise's stilled figure, and ran to join the game being played by the men who hadn't gone on the hunt. He grabbed a stick and quickly joined the fray, tackling with the collision of sticks, and tripping the men in front of him. He grinned at the exhilaration. Lise's gaze did not leave Dougal, only watching Jaime's tackles out of her peripheral vision. Without break eye contact with the young woman, Dougal tore off his outer coat, and stormed over to the game. He threw men to the ground, barging into them, and tossing them aside as though they were nothing more than ragdolls. The smouldering fire, heating a small pot of water was extinguished as Dougal slammed into the back of another man, causing him to tumble downwards and land on the small fire. Water sloshed in the pot, and split over the fallen figure, smothering the fire, and drenching the man. Dougal did not dignify him with a second glance, but instead charged towards Jaime, a roar of anger spilling from his throat, urgent, desperate. Jaime met the tackle with an equal ferocity. His eyes were as hard as Dougal's, no sympathy lingering in them, but the surprise of the attack did cause him to stumble half a step backwards. Jaime caught himself as Dougal growled at him, a low, warning rumble.

"I taught you this game, lad," spat Dougal. Jaime narrowed his eyes back at the attacker.

"That ye did." Jaime swung his stick at Dougal's legs, causing him to stumble back, but Dougal did not fall. He slammed his stick into the ball, hitting Jaime in the stomach on the backswing.

Lise and Claire watched the vicious game, a perversion of hockey but a thousand times more violent, utterly helpless to run to the aid of either man. Not that they needed any aid. The death of the man at the hands of the boar fuelled Dougal's rage, driving him to toss men aside with little to no care for their well-being. If Jaime's attack ever subsided, all he had to do to revitalise it was glance across to where the two women stood.


	8. Chapter 8

The knock on Colum's door rung through the room, drawing his gaze upwards. He pushed aside the papers he had been reading as Lise creaked open the door, peering around the heavy wood. She smiled warmly at the Laird, stepping through the doorway, instead of simply lunging around the door. Straightening her spine, and folding her hands delicately in front of her, Lise spoke, a cheerful manner creeping into her tone.

"I do hope I'm no disturbing ye?" She offered as an apology, inclining her head slightly to the Laird, a deference of respect. Colum gestured to the seat that faced him, and Lise gratefully closed the door behind her, moving over to the Laird's desk.

"Not at all. I always have time for a Stuart," Colum allowed himself a small, polite smile. Lise's smile wavered slightly. Colum noticed the hesitation in her smile, and his politeness stiffened slightly. Leaning back in his chair, he watched the young woman with a wary eye. "What can I do for you, Mistress?" The question seemed to be a trap, despite the fact that Lise had come to his door, to ask him for a favour. She swallowed difficultly, and glanced downwards, to her hands, gripping each other tightly on her lap.

"I had an altercation with yer brother in the corridor last night," She began. Colum's brow darkened, and he opened his mouth as though to speak, but Lise silenced him with a raise of her hand. The light filtering in through the window threw light on to the series of calluses on her right hand. A working hand. "Nothing came of it. I just thought I would tell ye, for if that is how ye treat yer guests…" Lise trailed off, leaving an unspoken, undefined threat hanging in the air. Colum paused, lingering on the taste of the threat, before leaning over the table and grasping her right hand. He twisted it over, palm facing up.

"You've been lying to me lass," He commented, pressing her fingers back to show the calluses to her. "This is no the hand of a highborn woman."

"No. It's no."

"Who are ye?" Colum demanded, releasing her hand, and throwing it back to her. Lise shook her wrist, an indignant expression forming on her face as she rubbed the soreness from her tendons. "I have gifted ye my hospitality, I have a right to ken who my guests are."

Lise's answer was mostly the truth.

"A descendant of the Stuart line, a royal - in terms of blood - but a bastard in reality." Technically none of that was a lie. She was a direct descendant of the Stuart family, through the bastard son of James Stuart, The Old Pretender himself. So technically, her blood had been royal at one point in the crown's history – and technically she had been born a bastard. Lise, in this moment, was not a liar. "I'm sorry to have deceived ye, but I felt a bastard might not be welcome in your halls," Lise apologised, bowing her head in deference to the Laird once more. Colum watched her with a wary eye. Suspicion clouded over his gaze, and he leant back in his chair once more.

Lise's family history spilled from her lips for over an hour, an endless stream of anecdotes, misinformation, family legends, and, occasionally, unfiltered truth.

She had missed telling the truth about her family. So enthralled in her recounting of her family, Lise had forgotten the reason why she entered the office in the first place. Her initial desire for recompense was forgotten, and instead she left, not with a promise of a slap on the wrist for Dougal, but instead a place in Castle Leoch.

* * *

The rent-gathering party left at dawn the next morning, with Claire in tow behind them. She did not quite understand how a group of men collecting rent might require a healer, but she knew better than to question Dougal when his mind was set.

The string of horses trotted out towards the wooded land, the high trees scraping up towards the still dark sky, reaching up until the fingertips of their leaves met the speckles of starlight. They followed in a neat line, following the well-trodden path, soft underfoot from the night's rain. The light patter of hooves was lost to the darkness of the dawn, absorbed in the ever-growing sunlight that spread its reach across the sky.  
Dougal led the pack, striding out in front on his horse, tall and proud. His legs gripped the horse's side confidently, a sword falling in line with his thigh. Behind him came a collection of other clansmen, indistinguishable in the early morning light, in their midst, a bright burst of red hair marked Jaime's presence. Immediately behind him followed Claire, riding alone, she looked shorter than she ever had. Her posture was bolt upright, a tension in her grip, uncertain in her position in this group and on the horse. She was not the last member of the group by far – a young boy followed her, barely old enough to have grown any scruff on his chin, and after came her familiar shadows; Angus and Rupert. Little to their knowledge, their pack would gain another rider in the woods ahead, an unexpected bonus to their vicious-looking crusade of Scots.

* * *

No matter how much Lise tried to pass it off as "intellectual curiosity", her defining remained in the 18th Century exactly what it had been in the late 21st Century: nosiness. She had wandered into the woods in the middle of the night, dressed in the lightest dress she could find, and had hitched it up around her thighs. She had tied knots either side of her thighs, allowing her to move with more freedom, and keep her hands free. Lise looked ridiculous. Legs splattered with mud, hair unbound and knotted with leaves where it had caught on branches, she looked more banshee than human. Her skin was so encased in mud, it was near impossible to know its true colour. She blended in with her surroundings magically, the darkness cloaking her in a safety of anonymity. She loved going unnoticed. Utterly engrossed in trying to convince the wild cat to edge closer to her, she had not noticed the soft footfalls of the rent-party creeping up behind her. She had managed to pick the cat up, amazed at its size and weight, and yet passivity towards her, when a loud snap made her head dart around. The cat panicked, and fled, claws out as it sprung off of Lise's body. The sharp claws dug into her flesh and ripped her chest; where they did not cut, they left long, trailing red welts across her body.

"Can ye no stay put, lass?" Dougal asked, exasperation filling the quieted woods. Lise lifted her gaze and hand from her wounds on her chest, waving to the party.

"I mean, technically, aye. But why would I? That's the boring thing to do," She beamed. Lise glanced down at her hands, smeared with her own blood. "Ye've no brought Claire with ye, by any chance have ye?"

"Nosey bitch," muttered Dougal, before wheeling his horse around and calling for Claire. Lise patted his leg condescendingly as she headed towards the healer. Tossing her head, she called back over her shoulder:

"Intellectual curiosity!"

* * *

Claire had scolded Lise the whole time she tended to her cuts. The disapproval filled Claire's gaze, and she was more rough with her strokes against the Scottish girl's flesh than was strictly necessary. The damp cloth that Claire used to rub the dirt and disease from Lise's skin stung against her skin, a prickling of nettle stings, retribution for being so careless. Claire reapplied the unknown liquid to the cloth and thrust it back over the wound.

"Ow," Lise commented flatly, looking up at Claire without expression. Her face was devoid of emotion, completely lacking any reaction, despite her protestations. Lise's face suggested she was numb to the stings of Claire's scolding and her 'healing'. The fire that scorched her collarbone, ripping through her capillaries and into her veins demanded that Lise acknowledge the pain she was feeling. Stubborn, petty, and endlessly afraid of looking weak, Lise forced her face to stay neutral.

"You know we don't have antibiotics, or sterile equipment here, right?" Hissed Claire in a low tone, her voice barely rising low enough for Lise to hear her. "Getting injured isn't as easy to fix as it was back home."

"Yes, thank you, _mum_ ," Lise murmured back, rolling her eyes. She shrugged Claire's hand off of her chest, yanking her clothes back up over her shoulder and dismissed Claire's concerns. She brushed the embedded dirt unsuccessfully from her clothes and spun around to face the men. "Where you boys running away to? Can I come?"  
Dougal looked at her for a moment. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Then opening his eyes and staring into Lise's very essence, he spoke his answer. His gaze tore through her, holding her hostage in the moment, his usual callousness seeming more malicious now. Lise retained the stoically statuesque expression, staring right back at him, hard as a marble statue. Her fingers twitched slightly, the only part of her that moved.

"Jaime. Ye can babysit the lass," barked Dougal, not breaking eye contact with Lise.

"I didnae need babysitting. I can handle myself thank ye very much."

"Ye cannae ride tho, can ye?" Jaime lowered a hand to pull Lise up on to his horse. She crossed her arms at him and scowled.

"Shut up Jaime." Her scowl faded as she realised that she couldn't get on to the horse and sulk, so she relinquished her sulk, and took the Highlander's hand. Hauling her up in front of him, Jaime shook his head slightly.

"Dougal's right, ye shouldnae be here. Why can ye no stay put?" He murmured into her ear. Lise grinned at the space ahead of her. She fidgeted until she was in a comfortable position, and then replied to Jaime.

"Nae body ever did anything worth knowing about by staying put."

* * *

The lake was calm, unnervingly so for Scotland. The standard breeze did not ripple the glass water that shimmered in the sunlight. It was glass, smoothed over with an elegant finish, a mirror, reflecting the party of highlanders back at themselves. Claire stood by the water's edge, the sounds of jostling men echoing behind her as she spoke a poem across the still water, broken only by the mossy ground that poked its head curiously above the water, listening to her words. The memory of her husband lingered in her mind as she spoke the words, a pang in her heart aching as she murmured softly to the day. Her words were joined by another voice, a chorus of poetry singing out across the lake. Claire turned to him as the cacophony of men grew louder, laughter bubbling out of them and roaring loudly. Claire and her companion turned to look at them, curiosity in Claire's gaze, amusement and disapproval in the lawyer's own gaze.

"What is it they're shouting over there?" asked Claire, watching the men laugh and mock the youngest of their flock. Lise leant back on the rock she used as a chair and raised an eyebrow.

"They're taking the piss. Willie's being told to…" Lise trailed off as she looked at the lawyer, his stern gaze causing her to falter. She bit the inside of her cheek and seemed to think, her brow furrowing slightly. Then her face smoothed out, and irritation toss her expression into the lake. "Ach, well you translate if I'm no allowed to repeat it."  
Ned Gowan stared Lise down for a moment, and she called something across to Willie, purposefully using Gaelic, and grinning at Claire. She danced over to the men and beamed broadly as she joined the raucous behaviour.  
Claire and Ned stared to move over towards the horses, and Ned finally gave a somewhat amended account of the men's mockery.

"They're encouraging him to have… biblical relations," he paused. "With his sister." Claire's eyebrows raised, and she pressed down a smile.

"Lovely." The word came out short, entertained but disapproving in equal measure. She was content to wander and talk with the lawyer, leaving Lise to bubble over with false mockery with the men. Claire glanced at Lise only once, and so missed the hand that clapped down on Lise's shoulder with a good-humoured mirth and the horror that filled Lise's expression. Claire missed the outright hatred that flooded into her eyes, and instead focused on healing the wrong individual. Claire relieved Ned's asthma but failed to relieve the mental turmoil that haunted Lise.


	9. Chapter 9

Collecting rent turned out to be more exciting than Lise had expected. She had initially only decided to come along to protect Claire, afraid of what Dougal might do if Claire was left, unwarned, unprotected.  
So far, he had merely behaved in his usual rough and gruff manner, abrupt but appreciative of the benefits of Claire, and still eternally mystified by Lise. Lise watched him with a careful eye, often lurking near Claire her fingers twitching to draw her knife and stab Dougal in the throat. A rational, but silenced, anger brewed underneath her surface. An anger which only grew when Lise realised to what extent these men were all props for Dougal to use. Dougal's status in Lise's estimation only sunk further. Not only was he a powerful highlander, used to getting his own way, by force if necessary, but also a heartless being. He seemed to be a man with no regard for other's pain, physical or emotional. And it made Lise burn with fury, her gut roiling at the indecency of it.

* * *

It was not until all of the rent party gathered in a tavern – for once, including the women – that this realisation hit home. Lise had been sat next to Jaime, making sly remarks to him as Dougal paraded around the small stone room, arms waving frantically about. The shadows danced opposite the fire as Dougal summoned them forth with his gesturing this way and that, trying to rile the local men to arms. Lise dryly noted that he would make a good politician to Jaime and glanced at his face to see his response. All she was gifted with was a small, weak smile, a single twitch of the corner of his lip upwards. His gaze never left the wall ahead of him, as he straight through and past it, lost in his mind's eye, not seeing. Lise leant back on the bench, the table Jaime leant over digging into her back painfully as she craned herself to look at him.

Across the room, where Claire was nursing a small flagon, Dougal's words were lost. She did not have the benefit of understanding the Gaelic words he was spewing like dragon fire, but she doubted that she could follow the stream of words even if she was fluent in the language. Instead, she enjoyed the show of rousing comradery that Dougal was displaying as he circled back towards Jaime and Lise.

Even from across the room, Claire could see Jaime's shoulders tense, his head lift slightly, and the eyes close against what he could see was coming. She could also see the hand that slipped from cradling the beer in front of him, on the table, to next to him, gripping Lise's hand on the bench.

Dougal ripped the shirt from Jaime's back, revealing the criss-cross of deep scars that tore into his flesh. Claire pressed a hand to her mouth, the reveal so horrifying unexpected that she couldn't stop the gasp from tumbling from her mouth. The scars somehow looked worse here, with the firelight glinting off the shining pink skin, shimmering as though they were decorations. Claire swallowed hard as she watched Jaime leave the tattered cloth around his waist, not attempting to cover himself. She watched as Lise's face turned to stone.

Lise herself was trying not to draw the knife that rested against her calf, the cool metal a comfort. Trying not to take it and draw it across Dougal's face for treating everyone and everything like his personal pawn, his shiny new toy to take out and parade around like a prized pony, whenever he had a point to make – and Dougal's point had certainly been made. He had got the ripple of shocked gasps around the room, including Claire's, and he had gotten the money he so clearly desired. Lise hated him more than she had hated anything in the world in that moment. But she swallowed it. She backed down from her instinct, and turned her hand to be palm up, wrapping her fingers around the coarse hand of Jaime. She squeezed his hand, a feeble comfort, but the gesture was there.

"I'm sorry," she breathed to him. The words were soft, light as the brush of dew against bare skin on a summer's morning.

Jaime squeezed her hand back.

* * *

Lise found it hard to sleep that night. When she closed her eyes Jaime's scars appeared before her, a pattern formed against her eyelids, unable to be escaped. She could almost feel the sting of a whip colliding with her own back, and yet couldn't. It was this inability to comprehend the sheer magnitude of pain that Jaime must have endured turned her stomach. It kept her from comfortably sinking into sleep.

She lay on her bed for a few hours, before flinging herself out of the door, and leaving behind the room she shared with Claire.

* * *

The inn was deserted now, the lingering ashes of the previously ferocious fire still smouldering in the fireplace. Lise glanced around, then wrapped the tartan blanket tighter around her, and stepped outside.

The sky was filled with more stars than she had ever seen.

It was a clear night – the first truly clear night she'd seen since arriving in the 18th Century – and in a world of limited pollution, that meant the sky was speckled with tiny blinks of light. No smog obscured their lights, and Lise felt her breath leave her, rising up to join the pinpricks of light in the dark curtain of space. She stared up, lost in her star-gazing, still standing on the porch-stone of the inn.

"Sleep escaping ye too?" Came a voice from the darkness. Lise couldn't conceal the jump before it flung her back a step, stumbling into the door. Jaime steadied her, a hand clasping her by the forearms, before releasing her just as quickly. Lise felt the absence of his warm palms so much more keenly than she had ever anticipated.

"What happened to ye?" Lise asked, not wishing to pry, but unable to stop herself. At least this time she had controlled the words, and they had been gentle, not the ugly blurting of a demand she was oh-so prone to doing. "And don't give me a smartarse answer. I may no be a healer like Claire, but I ken torture when I see it."

"Wasnae torture. It was punishment – the King's Justice." There was an undertone of cold laughter in Jaime's words – an irony that he just couldn't help. Lise reached out towards him and grasped his hand, tightly. He was her anchor as much as she was his. Lise looked up into Jaime's eyes, near impossible to see in the dark, but the pain was evident within them. She blinked back her own tears that rose, the pain and suffering and fear she had experienced, both recent and long gone, all demanding to be felt in this one moment. She lifted herself on to her toes, and wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging on tightly.

"Someone has really got out for you, huh?" She whispered, trying to sound light and failing. She loosened her grip and drew back. "Jaime… I am sorry. And I hope for your sake that the person that did that to you is dead and buried."


End file.
